


Just Let Me Hold You (Like A Hostage)

by Lacy_Star



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Shaming, Break Up, Emotional Manipulation, Jschlatt is a fucking dick, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touching, Tommy's a good kid, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacy_Star/pseuds/Lacy_Star
Summary: The first swing of the pickaxe into the White House wall sent the president into a coughing fit. Quackity supposed that, for all the working out Schlatt had sworn he was doing, it couldn’t do much to combat the constant slew of whatever the fuck he was pumping into himself these days.Every passing week his fiancee looked just a little more gaunt, his eyes a little more hollow, his skin a little more sallow. It was a sickening progression to watch, but Quackity had figured all that time that it was better to stay quiet and leave Schlatt to do what he wished in his down time. The country was a bigger concern after all, and their private lives had to stay separate from their political ones.Now, as Schlatt destroyed the monument and home they’d built, that HE'D built, Quackity knew that grace period was over.---AKA: A more detailed depiction of Schlatt and Quackity's break up and Quackity's escape to join Pogtopia.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & TommyInnit, Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt
Comments: 23
Kudos: 258





	Just Let Me Hold You (Like A Hostage)

**Author's Note:**

> I miss not possessed Quackity :(
> 
> Title Song: Hostage - Billie Eilish 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: There's no explicit sexual abuse or violence in this (which is why I didn't tag it as such), but there is some content that edges on that, such as unwanted groping and aggressive actions. Know your boundaries and please be careful when you read.
> 
> And if there are any tags you think I should add, do not hesitate to let me know.

The first swing of the pickaxe into the White House wall sent the president into a coughing fit. Quackity supposed that, for all the working out Schlatt had sworn he was doing, it couldn’t do much to combat the constant slew of whatever the fuck he was pumping into himself these days.

Every passing week his fiancee looked just a little more gaunt, his eyes a little more hollow, his skin a little more sallow. It was a sickening progression to watch, but Quackity had figured all that time that it was better to stay quiet and leave Schlatt to do what he wished in his down time. The country was a bigger concern after all, and their private lives had to stay separate from their political ones.

Now, as Schlatt destroyed the monument and home they’d built, that _he’d_ built, Quackity knew that grace period was over.

“I’m your Vice President,” He persisted, trying to keep his voice level, “we’re supposed to make these decisions together. I don’t think this is right, Schlatt—“

When Schlatt moved, it was a mix of rash sudden movements followed and proceeded by slow sways and unsteady feet, like a marionette being handled by an inexperienced puppeteer. When he turned to face Quackity with bloodshot, dilated eyes, Quackity stepped back out of instinct.

“I don’t have to take orders from your sorry ass,” Schlatt slurred gruffly, “Hell, you don’t even _have_ an ass to give me orders with.”

 _This again_ , Quackity thought with an eye roll. “I have every authority to object to this. I’m your Vice President, and this is a democracy.” He’d been clinging to those phrases: _I’m the Vice President,_ and _we share these decisions we make,_ and _this is a democracy._ Sometimes he felt like those words were the only things he could say that could ring true anymore, and barely so.

Schlatt turned away from him with a huff, raising the pick in his hands before swinging it down quickly into a window. Glass shattered and skidded across the floor, and Quackity backed up even further, heart pumping harder. “Are you even fucking _listening?_ ” He repeated, “This is a democracy, and I’m your Vice President,” _and your fiancee, did you forget that?_ “Just because you’re president doesn’t mean you get to go around making all these decisions yourself. You _have_ to listen—“

“And _I_ said…” Schlatt dropped the pickaxe to the ground with a heavy thud, pacing towards him, “You don’t _have_ an ass to give me orders with.”

Quackity held his ground as the president approached him, swallowing the tightness in his throat as Schlatt easily towered over him. With a softer voice, he tried, “Schlatt, come on—“

“ _No,_ you know what?” Schlatt jabbed him in the chest hard enough to send him staggering back a step, “Squat 200 times at the gym and _then_ come back and try and tell me what to do.” His eyes raked over him and Quackity barely resisted the urge to curl into himself, just meeting the other’s gaze with a jaw clicked shut. “I’m lookin’ at you now and you know what I see? You know what I see Quackity?”

Quackity didn’t have to respond. Schlatt stepped over to his side and bent down close to Quackity’s face. His breath _reeked_ of alcohol and his breaths seemed to come out a wheeze right against his ear, and _then_ Quackity had to cower, had to wrinkle his nose and try and tilt his head away so he didn’t have to meet his wild eyes, had to squeeze his eyes shut and hold his breath to fend off the cloying scent.

Schlatt just stood there a moment, breathing into his face, leaning so close in that his nose touched Quackity’s cheek. Quackity’s hands started to shake where they were hanging at his sides.

Then a sharp hit to hiss ass, _hard_ , stinging, and he yelped, eyes snapping open as he narrowly avoided tripping forward. He whirled to Schlatt, who stared at him through narrowed eyes.

“ _Flatty patty._ ”

It took a second for the gears in Quackity’s head to start turning again. “ _Don’t_ touch me,” He whispered fiercely, stepping back.

Schlatt’s eyes burned into him a moment more before he gave a “Hmph,” and turned away, returning to his pickaxe and smashing another wall.

Quackity made the silent mental vow to never turn his back to his fiancee again, and his hands, shaking doubly as hard, came to clutch at his sleeves as he crossed his arms.

He had to take a minute to find his voice, remember what he was defending— the country, not himself. “This is such bullshit,” He said, trying to fight the tremor that wanted to leak into his voice, “You know, the _only_ reason you’re president in the first place is because of _my_ votes. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“Yeah yeah, whine about it.” Another column went falling, the ceiling beginning to give, “Get all pissy and sad, pussy. I’ll give you something to cry about.” And Schlatt disappeared into the building. Quackity stared after him, desperately trying to remember what the correct pace to breathe at was, feeling more jittery than he ever had before. He wondered how the bastard was even alive; steroids and whisky were meant to have opposite effects. Wouldn’t a mix just knock him dead where he stood?

He only snapped back to reality when he heard the crash from above and saw shards of glass raining down towards him. He swore, stumbling back and raising his arms to shield his face.

“What the _fuck_!?” He yelled.

Schlatt poked his head out from above. “What are you gonna do about _that?_ ” He shouted down, and that was his room up there, that he was destroying, Quackity realized. The one he’d made for him, so he could look down proudly over his country.

“Wh- I _made_ that for you!”

“And you did a shit job of it! You’re not good for anything!” Schlatt’s pickaxe fell down from above, and Schlatt followed it, jumping down and landing precariously on his knees before sliding forward and face planting into the grass. Even seeing slumped on the ground worthlessly, Quackity was terrified of him. He braced an elbow and pulled himself to his feet, dragging his pick with him as he stepped towards Quackity again. “Not even good enough for a fuck.” His hand fell to Quackity’s hip, sliding back to grope at his ass again. “There’s nothing fucking there!”

Quackity frantically hit Schlatt’s hand away, eyes beginning to sting. “I said don’t fucking touch me!”

Again Schlatt bent down to breathe directly into his face, and again the pungent odor of his breath overwhelmed him, and if he was struggling to breathe before, it was worse now. Each breath felt like a gasp as he winced away from him, the first thin tears sliding down his face. Shamefully he hung his head.

There was a sudden sharp, cold metal against his chin and he audibly gasped as his head was tilted up again, forced to stare into Schlatt’s eyes. He realized that the pickaxe was the foreign coolness in question against his chin. He never wanted another pickaxe touching his face again.

“Aw…” Schlatt cooed sickeningly, voice dripping with the same sympathy of cough syrup, “Don’t cry, _amour_.”

The word made Quackity sick to his stomach. He wanted to pull away, but feared doing so lest Schlatt jam the pick into his throat.

A warm hand cupped his cheek, a greasy thumb wiping away the dripping tears, and Quackity wanted to give another ‘don’t touch me’, but all he managed was a, “ _Don’t_ —“ Before choking and cutting off, because he couldn’t finish, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t speak if he couldn’t breathe, and Schlatt was too close and _touching_ him and he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t—

“Please—“ He began to beg, “fuck, _please—_ Schlatt, stop, I can’t— I _can’t-_ “

The blunt head of the pickaxe dug into his chest and shoved him back, and he gulped down air as he hit the ground, and he wanted to get to his feet and run but his knees were far too shaky to support him and his arms too trembly to push him up, and as he struggled to breathe, just fucking _breathe_ God damn it, all he could do was stare up at Schlatt, towering not far in front of him, and cry.

“Seriously,” Schlatt growled, and he was _sneering,_ “Stop crying like a fucking bitch.”

And in the man’s eyes there was nothing but hate, and only then did Quackity see it. Nothing but cold, selfish hate, and resentment. For all his honeyed words, he’d never cared for Quackity’s input or feelings or love, or the country, or anyone at all, and whether that hate was spawned by substance or drugs or whoever the hell cared, there was no perspective for anyone bigger than himself, because he was the biggest thing in his world. Quackity was a plane ticket; great one way use to get somewhere, but something to trash once you arrived.

And only then did Quackity realize.

He had to get out. He couldn’t breathe. They were outside but all of the air in the area was poisoned. He had to _go— stand up, idiot, hurry, come on—_

“Fuck you—“ He stammered out, finally. He tried to push himself to his feet, but he couldn’t— he _had to, keep trying, get the fuck up—_ “Fuck you. We put our votes together, we were supposed to be a fucking team.”

“You’re really fuckin’ hellbent on that, huh?”

“You _aren’t_!?” He managed to plant his feet and hands, _push, get up_ , “Fuck you, Schlatt. Find a new Vice President.”

The man laughed loudly. Quackity saw him raise the pickaxe in the air, he had to fucking _move—_ “Yeah, fuckin’ right, I’ll find a new bitch who’s twice the fucking man you’ll ever be, _pussy.”_

Finally, just in time, Quackity managed to push himself up and away as the pickaxe flew at him and landed point down in the dirt right where his head had been. How the man had such good aim while inebriated, he dreamed to know.

Schlatt’s nostrils flared when he turned back to him. “Get the fuck off my property. Get—”

Quackity managed to summon words that were stronger than he felt. “You’re the worst fucking dictator. I ran against Wilbur to prevent a dictatorship like this.”

“You interrupted me.” Schlatt began to walk towards him again. Quackity stumbled back. His bow was around, somewhere on the ground— _grab the bow—_ “Do that again and I’m gonna get _real_ angry.”

 _Like he wasn’t already._ Quackity’s fingers closed around the smooth wood, his other hand reaching for an arrow which he shakily knocked and pointed towards the president. “Fuck off.”

“What, you gonna fuckin’ shoot me? Gonna shoot the president of _your_ country you sing more fuckin’ prayers about than you moan my name?”

Quackity hesitated, grip weakening on the drawn arrow.

“Yeah, you’re too much of a fuckin’ pussy to do it, that’s what I thought.”

“Find yourself another Vice President,” Quackity seethed. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking, “You’ve fucked this place over so bad. Citizen morale’s been run into the God damn ground. We could’ve made this place so much better.”

“ _We?_ Ha… You were never Vice President,” Schlatt seethed, “You were just my bitch.”

Quackity let the arrow fly. Luckily for Schlatt’s delayed reaction time, his trembling hands and tear-blurred vision hadn’t given him the best aim and it hit the crumbling wall of the White House behind him before falling to the ground. Schlatt turned to it a full five seconds after it had flown past his head, staring it with nothing more than bewilderment. Quackity had never seen a person both so horrifying and worthless all at once in his life.

“Fuck you, I’m out. Go fuck yourself,” He said, voice a tremor, and then, while the tyrant was still distracted, he dropped the bow to the ground, turned, and ran as fast as he could away from the husk of his country.

From the line of trees, two ice-blue eyes watched him before turning and following after him.

* * *

Quackity was pathetic.

That’s all he could think as he dashed through the forest, tears streaming down his face as his feet pounded against the floor. He didn’t even know where he was running to, only knowing he was running away. He was fueled solely by adrenaline. He still hadn’t gotten a grip on his breath, but each step he took the air got a little clearer.

His head was still foggy. Pathetic. He was pathetic. He couldn’t even run a country right. And that might’ve been Schlatt’s fault for not ever listening to him, but he’d still failed at his job one way or another. And now he was running away pathetically, crying. _Like a bitch._

He had to make it right.

But before he could do that, he had to get away.

Manberg’s glow had faded into the obscure distance, but he continued to run. He didn’t have anything on him— he’d dropped his bow during his exit— and the sun was lowering. If Schlatt didn’t find him, the monsters that appeared at this hour might. He was defenseless. He had to get away.

Eventually his legs started to numb from his escape, his steps dragging more and more, and soon his tired, clumsy feet tripped over the air and sent him sprawling to the ground, and only _then_ did he stop.

Panting from exertion and sniffling, he rolled over onto his back, holding his breath only to listen for any approaching footsteps. When he heard nothing, he relaxed and _finally_ began to breathe.

He took in air desperately, releasing it in near sobs. Occasionally he’d give a tremble, but he was too exhausted to do much more than lie there, staring up. The trees loomed above, glimmers of stars peeking between the pine needles of the spruce above.

What now?

Where did he go?

Was going something he was even capable of doing?

Finally finding the air to talk, he whispered, to nobody in particular, “He _used_ me.”

Pathetic.

… Maybe he ought to go back. Schlatt was drunk, maybe he would have forgotten by the morning.

Footsteps.

Heavy, sharp. Quackity’s head snapped up and he rolled weakly onto his side, looking out into the trees with frantic eyes. Oh God, he was fucked.

He relaxed only for a moment when he saw, between the trunks, the brown legs of a horse. He tensed immediately after when he caught a glimpse of who rode on it.

“No—“ He instantly blurted, sitting up and scrambling back towards a large spruce nearby, “Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off—“

Unfortunately, Tommy must have heard him, because the horse steered in his direction, its hoof falls growing louder. Quackity dragged himself behind the tree, curling up tight against its trunk and frantically wiping the tears from his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to get teased for crying by a God damn _teenager._

The horse stopped and gave a snort-sigh, and Quackity heard a rustle as Tommy dismounted it and landed on the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut, making himself as small as possible, as if that would help.

For a long moment there was just silence. Then, with a calmness that was so foreign to Tommy’s voice that Quackity was genuinely, wholly, honest to God _terrified,_ he said, “I know you’re there, Big Q.”

He was going to die. A British teenager who could probably barely spell his own name was going to kill him.

No point in avoiding it. Quackity hesitantly opened his eyes and peeked his head out from behind the tree to look at him.

In one hand Tommy held a torch. He was dressed in full netherite armor, which already didn’t bode well, as he glanced through the trees, searching for the ex-Vice President. When he caught Quackity’s eye, he froze. So did Quackity.

Then, Tommy very carefully leaned down and dug the end of the torch into the ground to keep it in place. The trees lit up with a glow, casting dancing, mocking shadows all around. Tommy raised both hands, keeping them open to show he didn’t hold anything potentially dangerous. Then he took a slow, hesitant step towards him.

“ _Stop—_ “ Quackity instantly demanded. It was clear that Tommy didn’t _appear_ to come off as threatening, but it wasn’t enough, “Take— take your armor off. All of it. Take it off first.”

Tommy paused and glanced down at himself. Then, to Quackity’s surprise, he obliged. One by one, his armor fell to the ground with a thud, and Quackity found himself amazed. He was unsure if this shock came from the fact that the kid was genuinely coming into this vulnerable and peacefully, or if it was because he was so unused to anyone listening to his orders these days. Especially _Tommy,_ who didn’t even take orders from the people he supported, like Wilbur.

Once it was all off, Quackity hesitantly inched out from his hiding spot behind the tree, still sitting on the ground and readying himself to run, though he knew it would be fruitless. That horse looked like it belonged to Techno, and Techno had some of the most athletic steeds in the land. Swallowing the bile that had built up in his throat from crying, he sniffled and asked, “What do you want?”

The kid seemed caught off guard at his tearful expression, and he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly as he searched for words. Worst of all, there was a genuine concern in Tommy’s voice when he asked, “Why’d you run off? Why are you in the woods, Big Q?”

So _now_ he was being compassionate? “What, were you fucking watching me? Were you laughing?”

Tommy glanced to the side before carefully responding, “I heard a little. Didn’t laugh.”

Fuck. Quackity rubbed at his eyes frantically. _Pathetic_.

Tommy cleared his throat. “It’s been a while since we’ve talked last, Mr. Vice President.”

Quackity laughed bitterly. “No no, not Vice President anymore.” _Never was in the first place._

“Not anymore?”

“Jschlatt’s an asshole,” He sniffed harshly, “That’s all I’m gonna say. Jschlatt’s a piece of shit.”

“What’s happened?”

“He’s taking down the White House and he’s fuckin’…” Quackity rubbed his temples, “He’s gone power crazy. I don’t know…”

He glanced up again, and Tommy came towards him slowly, hands still open and in the air, as if he were approaching a scared animal, and Quackity hated the fact that he actually found comfort in the cautious approach. Pathetic to be scared of _TommyInnit_ , but he was defenseless.

Tommy stopped closer to him, but still left a generous amount of space, which Quackity appreciated immensely after having his neck breathed down not long before. The kid took a knee in front of him and Quackity sniffed, avoiding eye contact.

“I… heard some screaming,” Tommy said quietly, “Were you crying? It sounded like you were crying.”

Quackity blinked back tears. His cheeks were salty, his eyes puffy, and his lips stuck together with salt. “I wasn’t fucking crying,” He hissed.

Tommy, obviously, did not believe this. He shifted on the ground awkwardly before, with a hint of humor in his voice, asked, “So surely that was Schlatt, then?”

“Huh?”

“Crying.”

A short, but genuine laugh ripped out of Quackity. At least the kid gave him deniability. “Yeah, he was bawling.”

Tommy chuckled and went silent. In the distance, a zombie groaned.

Quackity knew he couldn’t just sit and be weak in front of his enemy (was Pogtopia his enemy anymore?). He had to at least try and put on a strong face or he wouldn’t stand a chance.

He didn’t even believe himself when he said, “I wanna overthrow Schlatt.”

“Well… uh… yeah, me and the lads are already kinda working on that.”

A team up with _Pogtopia_? Was he seriously considering it?

Better than dying in the woods by himself.

“He’s— he’s always undermining me.” That didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what that man had done to him. “I’m done.”

Tommy swallowed, fresh-teen-boy Adam’s apple bobbing. “What are you saying, Big Q?”

Quackity wanted to give an important ‘join forces with me, Tommy’, speech, but all he could muster was a, “Maybe we can team up or something? I don’t know,” And a shrug. He still didn’t meet Tommy’s eyes.

“How do I know this isn’t a set up?” Tommy asked.

Because _look at him._ He couldn’t hurt anyone if he tried. But if Tommy wanted proof, he’d give it. He’d give anything. “How can I prove myself to you?”

He felt Tommy’s eyes stare into him, pierced with pity. “Not sure if Wilbur would want you… Y’know, everyone in Pogtopia, they—“ he cut himself off, clearly thinking better of what he was going to say. Quackity’s stomach sank.

“ _What,_ ” He demanded, “They _what?_ ”

“… They call you Schlatt’s bitch.”

Quackity’s voice broke on his shout of, “I’m _not_ Schlatt’s bitch!” And his head snapped up to finally look at Tommy, a couple more tears escaping.

Tommy was staring at him with soft worry, but clearly he was trying to seem stern; an attempt to try and uphold the fact that they were meant to be enemies. They both knew that was a formality at this point.

“… If you’re gonna ask to join,” He said slowly, “Just fucking ask. I need you to ask.”

Why? So that way he could drag him back to Wilbur, and when Wilbur chastised him for bringing such a _pathetic loser_ to him, Tommy could shrug and say, “well he asked, this wasn’t my idea”?

“What!?” Quackity cried, giving up on trying to restrain whatever frustrated tears he had left to give, “You want me to get on my knees and fucking beg? _Help me kill Schlatt._ ”

Tommy stared at him, brow pinched softly. Quackity never knew he was remotely capable of compassion.

He continued, “I have a plan to kill him, and I’ll do it with or without you.” That was a lie. Complete lie. He had no idea what the fuck he was doing; he was grasping at straws.

This was so unconvincing that Tommy sighed, _sighed_ like a fucking disappointed _parent,_ and said, “Alex.”

Quackity swallowed thickly and crossed his arms, begrudgingly going silent with a restricted sob.

“Do you want to join Pogtopia?”

What did he have left to lose? Sighing shakily, he quickly nodded his head. “ _Yes,_ I want to join Pogtopia. I’ll do whatever I need to prove it, okay? I’m just done,” His voice sounded tired even to himself, “I don’t want to do this shit anymore. I’m tired of being under Jschlatt’s rule— under his fucking _control._ He doesn’t respect my decisions. Let me join Pogtopia.”

Tommy started to hold out a hand, seemingly for Quackity to shake. He paused, glancing off to the side, probably mulling over a hundred possibilities of how Wilbur would react to dragging him home without warning. Hesitantly he said, “It’s your fault we lost.”

Exasperated, Quackity mumbled, “Tommy, when I first ran against you and Wilbur, Manberg had walls. One of the first things Wilbur told me was ‘you can’t join L’manberg because you’re not British’ and as a first impression that just… left me out a lot. And— and I’d just arrived and I had nowhere to go, and I thought, ‘here’s a country that values freedom,’ and getting rejected like that… Look, I’m sorry for teaming with Schlatt. It was stupid. I feel like a fucking idiot.”

Tommy drummed his hands on his knees. It seemed he was completely incapable of holding still for long. Even so, his eyes went distant with thought, and he nodded seriously after a moment. “I understand. You’re right.”

“ _Please_ let me join Pogtopia.” Quackity was truly was begging then.

“… Anything to prove it?”

“Anything.”

And then Tommy had the audacity to break out into a slow, hesitant grin. He stood and held out a hand for him to grab. “Let me ask you a question.”

Quackity didn’t trust it just yet. He stared up at him. “What?”

“If you see a man stood in front of you, what do you do?”

He blinked, then wiped at his eyes with a weak chuckle. “What the fuck, Tommy?”

Tommy only smiled wider. “What do you do?”

Was this his way of telling him he’d been accepted? Knowing what Tommy would want to hear, he smiled weakly and said, “Well… I love women so much. I’d kick his ass.”

And Tommy’s eyes narrowed in that mischievous way that they did. And then: “Welcome aboard.”

Quackity took his hand and let Tommy pull him to his feet, loathing the fact that he was smiling at this idiocy. But he was riding on a high of relief, knowing he wouldn’t have to wake up to more insults or broken bottles or country in shambles. Tommy gripped his hand, shook it viciously and gave a triumphant, “Fuck men!”

He laughed and nodded in agreement, “Yeah, fuck men!” _Fuck you, Schlatt._

Grinning, Tommy returned to his armor and put it on before putting out the torch, probably so they wouldn’t be spotted on the way back to the Pogtopia base. Then he mounted Techno’s horse before holding out a hand to help Quackity up. He took it and let the kid pull him, sitting behind him and trying to get comfortable. The horse’s tail flicked at the new weight that had been added.

Tommy spurred the horse on and they went out into the shadows, mindful of a pack of spiders close by as they went. Quackity hoped that the base wasn’t far. He felt exhausted.

Tommy, never one to stay quiet, turned to glance at him over his shoulder, still smiling with braces and all. “You’re not gonna be a bitch no more!”

And for what it was worth, Alex smiled back at him. _Nope. Take that, Schlatt._

As they rode off, further and further from Manberg, Quackity felt just a bit more confident. Maybe, just maybe, he’d stand a chance now. Maybe his voice would finally be heard. Maybe, finally, he could show Schlatt just what it was like to be silenced.

One day, he’d have that fucker’s heart served to him on a platter.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [Tumblr](https://lacystar.tumblr.com)!


End file.
